The End of The End
by SplatDragon
Summary: Final Death was just part of the circle of life. You are born, you live, you die. You 'live' in the Land of the Dead for however long you are Remembered, and then you go through the Final Death and whatever comes after. Héctor was being forgotten. He had been born, he had lived, he had died. He had been remembered for almost seventy years. Now it was his turn for the Final Death.


**Translations:**

_Primos_ \- Cousins  
_Tia_ \- Aunt  
_Cabrón_ \- Dumbass  
_Charro suit_ \- a style of clothing typically associated with mariachi performers  
_¡Dios!_ \- God!  
_¡Basta, basta!_ \- Enough, enough!  
_¡Por favor, Dios, haz que pare, haz que pare! ¡Duele!_ \- Please, god, make it stop, make it stop! It hurts!  
_Ayúdame... por favor... que alguien me ayude..._ \- Help me… please… someone help me…  
_Por favor, no otra vez_ \- Please, not again  
_Lo siento, lo siento mucho, por favor cariño, perdóname, Imelda, Coco, lo siento mucho, no quería dejarte, no quiero dejarte, no antes, no otra vez, nunca más_ \- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please sweethearts, forgive me, Imelda, Coco, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to leave you, I don't want to leave you, not before, not again, never again

* * *

He felt _so heavy_. Like he had skin again, meat and muscle to drive him into the ground.

But no matter how many times he looked at his hands, nothing changed. Still, his yellowed bones stared back at him, cracked and chipped metacarpals and phalanges trembling. Years of over-use in life had worn them down, and death had not been kind to them either.

So he dropped it back to his chest, running his thumb along the brim of his straw hat. It had been a gift from a _primo_, one who had succumbed to the Final Death many years ago, and Héctor couldn't help but to wonder if he would see his _tio _again.

No one knew what happened after the Final Death, and so he supposed he would just have to find out himself. Would he just cease to exist? To never get the chance to tell Coco just how sorry he was? That he _had _tried to come home, truly, he had, and that he never should have left? That he loved her, oh, he loved her, loved her more than he thought was possible? Or would he see her again when she, too, succumbed to the Final Death a long, long, long time from now, as they all did? Grovel at her feet, tell her all the things he had wanted to say when he greeted her at the Department of Family Reunions, although he would never deserve her forgiveness?

He hadn't been out of his shack in a week, and he knew his _primos _were worried. It wasn't unheard of for him to hide away in his shack, but never in the middle of the year—always after _Dia de Muertos_, after a failed attempt to cross the bridge ("What did you expect, _cabrón_?!" Chich would always bark), licking his wounds and feeling sorry for himself, planning next year's attempt.

Tia Maria had come to his door twice, and he had sent her away both times, claiming to be busy. Chich had come by once, threatening to knock down the door if he wasn't out by the end of the week.

Héctor knew, though, he wouldn't make it to the end of the week.

He felt so, so heavy, and so, so tired. Moving his thumb to stroke the rim of his hat took all of his strength, and as much as he wanted to change into his charro suit, the one he had taken with him into death, that Imelda had bought him as a wedding gift, he couldn't fathom getting out of his hammock, much less changing his clothing.

Just another thing he failed to do. He was good at that, it seemed.

He gasped, curling in on himself as a golden light gleamed across his _calavera _markings, a sharp pain shooting through his stomach. Almost ninety years later, and he could never forget that pain. _'¡Dios!' _

His legs kicked futily against the scratchy fabric of his hammock, trying to stop the pain, until finally it faded with the golden light, leaving him to slump down, gasping, hands limp on his hat. _'She's… forgetting me…' _If he could have, he would have been crying, but all he could do was wheeze a dry sob, a sound that rattled in his rib-cage, and let his head loll forward. Oh, his poor, poor Coco. He had never been able to see her after his death, never been able to see her grow from a tiny little toddler into child, into a grown woman, into an old lady. Had never been able to see her get married, never been able to teach her to play guitar as he had always dreamed of doing ("No, Héctor, not until she's five!"), had never been able to visit every _Dia de Muertos _and watch his grand children and, later, great- and great-great- grandchildren grow up.

And now, apparently, had never been there to see her mind slip away.

It was the only way she could forget him, he knew. Or, at least, hoped, which he knew was horribly selfish—he'd seen Imelda's great-_abuelita _s mind go, and it had been painful to watch. Something he would _never _wish on his daughter. But she had clung onto his memory for so long… why would she forget him now? And so gradually?

_'My poor, poor Coco.' _

Another pain shot through his stomach, his markings flashing a gold that, under any other circumstances, would have been beautiful. He curled in on himself, barely, shoulders twitching and gasping, _'¡Basta, basta!'_

He was never going to be able to apologize to Imelda, was he? To be able to get her to not chase him away with her shoe, to listen to him, if only for a moment. To tell her that he had _tried _to come home, he had _tried_, that he was on his way to the train station when he'd died. To tell her that he'd never forgiven himself for leaving her to raise their daughter alone, with only her brothers to help her, teenaged at the time, leaving her to have to work herself to death to make ends meet. To tell her that he should _never _have listened to Ernesto, that he _never _should have left, that he was so, _so _sorry, that he should never have taken the time to drink that shot, so he would have made it to the train station before he died, so they could have had the money that he'd stashed in his jacket, all of his earnings that he hadn't yet sent her.

Never going to be able to meet his son-in-law whose name he didn't even know, to thank him for taking care of his Coco where he failed, never going to be able to thank Philipe and Oscar for stepping in, as young as they'd been, and helping Imelda start and work the business until their own deaths, even though they had to put aside their own dreams, for raising Coco when he couldn't.

Never going to do any of the things he wanted to do.

Part of him wished that he would fade into oblivion, that he would dissolve into the Final Death and know no more. No longer have to regret, to hurt, to miss them. And he knew that, if there _was _something after the Final Death, he would hate himself forever for thinking so.

Agony burned through him, more painful than before, more painful even than when he had died. He curled in on himself, weakly grasping at the stomach that wasn't there, distals scratching against his spine in a desperate attempt to stop the pain, _'¡Por favor, Dios, haz que pare, haz que pare! ¡Duele!' _

Héctor toppled onto his side, his bones slipping apart, struggling to keep together. He panted for breath he didn't need, _calavera_ carvings flashing with each wave of pain.

When the pain stopped, he couldn't move.

His hat had fallen to the floor in his fit, and his hands were clenched loosely on the hammock below his rib-cage. His ribs heaved, and his gasps rattled horribly, bones clattering against each other. _'Ayúdame... por favor... que alguien me ayude...'_

But he knew there was nothing that could be done. The Final Death was just part of the circle of life. You were born, you lived, you died. You 'lived' in the Land of the Dead for however long you were Remembered, and then you went through the Final Death and whatever came after.

And Héctor was being forgotten. He had been born, he had lived for twenty one years, he had died. He had been remembered for almost seventy years. Now it was his turn for the Final Death.

He just… wished it was faster.

It really hurt.

A lot.

_'Por favor, no otra vez.' _

He didn't want to feel the pain again, but he'd seen more people than he cared to go through the Final Death, and they always suffered as they faded away. Suffered in how they had died, clutching at their death-pains as they faded, only those who had died peacefully, or in their sleep, of old age or of natural causes fading away with little pain.

_Pain_.

Pain that took his breath away.

Pain that left him wordless, thoughtless, that had bile that wasn't there rising into a throat he didn't have, he didn't have the energy even to gag, to gasp, to sob, all he could do was twitch his fingers, wanting to curl in on himself, to convulse, to clutch at his stomach in some feeble attempt to stop the torture. His carvings were glowing, brighter and brighter with each worsening spike of agony.

_'Lo siento, lo siento mucho, por favor cariño, perdóname, Imelda, Coco, lo siento mucho, no quería dejarte, no quiero dejarte, no antes, no otra vez, nunca más-'_

Pain.

_Pain. _

**_Pain._**


End file.
